The night was heavy and silent. The moonlight filtered weakly through the glass panes of the Hunter Association Tower, casting pale silver streaks across the dark oak furniture of President William's office. The room was filled with the faint scent of ink, parchment, and steel—a soldier's quarters, not a bureaucrat's.
Max sat in one of the tall chairs opposite William's desk, his figure relaxed but his eyes sharp. Across from him, President William leaned back, exhaustion visible in the heaviness of his shoulders, though his aura of war never seemed to fade completely.
The lamp on his desk flickered with a dim flame, casting long shadows across the shelves lined with scrolls and ancient tomes.
